


Maybe He's Got FOMO or Maybe He's Just Human

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: A Very Capitals Collection [5]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF, NHL - Fandom, Washington Capitals - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hockey, Loneliness, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, bad reffing, forged family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 01:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: Popcorn flew into the air as Willy threw his nearly empty bowl at the wall. “What kind of dipshit call was that?” he raged. He’d almost chosen not to watch the game tonight, but it inevitably drew him in after a few pitiful attempts to otherwise entertain himself.





	Maybe He's Got FOMO or Maybe He's Just Human

**Author's Note:**

> I was wondering how much fun Willy was having in Whistler, being the precious huge Canadian teddy bear that he is, when I recalled that he was practicing with the team, but not travelling. And I thought how lonely and awful! And then I wrote this.

Popcorn flew into the air as Willy threw his nearly empty bowl at the wall. “What kind of dipshit call was that?” he raged. He’d almost chosen not to watch the game tonight, but it inevitably drew him in after a few pitiful attempts to otherwise entertain himself.

The boys, in an attempt to be inclusive, had loaded his inbox with pics and videos from Whistler. And while he cracked a smile at Oshie’s absolute childlike glee following his axe-throwing victory, the content by-and-large had twisted a knife in his gut. There’s something about being left behind that grates on you. Maybe he’s got FOMO or maybe he’s just human.

After an evening run, and a failed start at laundry, and a walk downtown to pick up some takeout, and about 10 minutes of Mario Cart, his phone buzzed. Oilers’ Evan Bouchard had put them on the board first.

Tom stared at his phone. He bit his lip and waffled for a moment before groaning in despair and reaching for the remote. He had zero impulse control when it came to the sport he loved.

He wasn’t sure why he’d been drawn in like he’d been caught in a tractor beam. Perhaps it was a confidence that they could come back – he was all in favor of a rally cap moment. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d never even heard of Evan Bouchard. Perhaps it was the realization that his phone would be buzzing all night long reminding him of where he should be right now. Might as well watch the game if it was going to haunt him either way. Regardless of the reasoning, he found himself with popcorn in his lap, eyes glued to the television, heart clinching with envy, and lips spilling out undo commentary (he had no audience after all).

When Andre sniped one home, Tom whooped and hollered to his empty condo, bellowing in elation and relief. It was about damn time. When he finally settled back into his nest of blankets and pillows, he whipped out his phone so he could text a ‘congrats’ to his friend.

When Nugent-Hopkins undressed Nicky and beat out Holts, he’d flopped his head back and bemoaned his team for failing to care for the puck. It got worse from there.  
Willy noted the musical chairs happening on the first line as DSP, Oshie, Backy and others all took moments beside Kuzy and their captain. It was the obvious result of a stifled first line trying to solve their inability to gain momentum. Tom tried not to feel proud that his absence had indeed left a hole to fill because the train of thought inevitably ended with a shaming that he’d let his team down in the first place.

Pretty soon his boys were looking at a 3-1 gap in the third period. That’s when the wacko reffing escalated. Randomly after an icing call, the ref threw up his arm and declared a delay of game. That’s when the remains of his popcorn were sacrificed to his temper.

But it was when the announcers brought up the harsh reality that this was only game 8 of the 20 he’d be serving throughout his suspension, Tom grabbed the remote and turned the television off.

Later that night as he lay restless on his back, covers thrown to the side and mind wandering relentlessly, the screen of his phone lit up illuminating the dark room. Fumbling for the device, Tom squinted against the harshness of the bright screen and took in a text from Burky.

_Thought you weren’t gonna watch?! :P Thanks Big Willy. miss you out here bud_

It buzzed again. This time from Osh.

_Try not to go crazy and maybe cook something for once yeah?_

_Oh and Fuck Bettman._

Then again, from Ovi.

_We slack tonight. You better not. See you soon babe._

And again, from Nicky.

_Sorry for the hearing decision. We miss you out here. Be back to push you around soon._

Several more scattered texts streamed in from his teammates, his brothers, and as the screen finally darkened, Wilson lay back. He really had the best team.


End file.
